She looked sexual; wound up and desperate. “If you don’t want to stroke it, you can slap it instead.” he'd said.She'd whimpered. “Do it, baby....��She'd done it and as she relished in the memory, Olive did it again. Opening her legs, she raised her hand and let her trembling fingers slap down against her wet, swollen pussy. It stung. Her legs tried to close but she forced herself to keep them spread as her breath rushed unevenly out of her.“Harder,” he'd said.She winced.“Please.”“Harder.”“Fuck!”. The preachers and an assistant sat outside and in front of him. Spinks sat on his heels, back pressed against the wall, arms resting on his legs, alone inside the cell. These austere walls and iron bars have, on many occasions, reverberated with the screams of the mad, the ribald songs of the hardened criminal, and the anguished sobs and wailing of the repentant murderer, as he arouses up from sleep to a cold sweat and a very real nightmare. His moment of truth. In a short while, though, the. More

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